Avraham Azrieli - The Jerusalem Assassin

The explosions followed one another in rapid succession. An instant later, the two Arabs got up and ran through the rubble toward the front of the synagogue, away from the doors.

The wooden benches had smashed into one another as if hit by a giant fist, taking the congregants down, flesh and wood gritted together into a mass of red and brown. Smoke filled the air, descending slowly. The floor was strewn with body parts. Abu Yusef’s shoes squeaked in the puddles of blood.

A woman up in the mezzanine shrieked, “Laurent! Laurent!”

The explosions had shattered most of the wooden dais. The boy sat upright, his back to the Torah ark. The sun shone on him through the blown windows. At the foot of the dais, a white-haired Jew slumped, his chest open. Spasms of dark blood burst out between his ribs, which protruded from the flesh like broken sticks. He didn’t move. Nearby, another Jew tried to push up from the floor, his head rocking up and down. But he had no legs anymore, only stumps that oozed blood. He tried to reach down and stem the gushing blood. Slowly his head stopped rocking, and the stream of blood slowed to a trickle.

The woman in the mezzanine kept shrieking, “ Laurent! ”

The boy’s eyes opened.

Abu Yusef followed his gaze and saw, through the descending smoke, the woman lean over the railing above. She cried again, “ Laurent! ”

“ Oui, Mama? ” His voice was clear, but a moment later his head bowed, his chin rested against his chest, and his gaze froze.

“Get one of them!” Bashir’s voice tore Abu Yusef from momentary paralysis. He bent down and collected the Jew with no legs. With the corpse pressed to his chest, Abu Yusef followed Bashir, who was carrying a toddler with a split skull and a severed forearm.

The doors opened and the gendarmes peeked in cautiously.

*

The explosions tore Elie out of deep sleep. At first he thought the noise belonged in his dream. Using the wall for support, he made his way to the window. He pushed the curtains aside. Three floors below, people were running in the street.

He bent over the windowsill and looked to the right at the forecourt of the synagogue. A cloud of smoke was rising, and a small crowd formed a semi-circle around a pavement strewn with pieces of glass and wood.

His mind was maddeningly slow.

An explosion? In the synagogue? How?

It’s not Abu Yusef. Couldn’t be. Had no time to plan, to scout, to infiltrate.

Must be another group.

Hamas? Hezbollah? Al-Qaida? The Iranians?

More screaming!

A man with a colorful skullcap emerged from the smoke, carrying a bloody child.

Another man followed, also carrying a child. No. Not a child. An old man without legs!

The wounded were laid down on the pavement. A faraway siren sounded, and another one. More people ran from both ends of Rue Buffault toward the synagogue.

But against that tide of curious spectators, the two men who had carried out the first wounded walked toward Rue Chateaudun. Their suits were stained with blood, but they seemed composed and purposeful. As they passed across from his window, Elie recognized them.

Abu Yusef and Bashir Hamami!

A groan escaped his lips, and it must have been loud enough to overcome the clamor, because Abu Yusef’s head turned and his eyes met Elie’s.

For a brief moment, the world stood still around them.

Abu Yusef’s hand went under his suit jacket, reaching for a gun, but it came out empty. He moved a thumb under his throat and hurried after Bashir.

Elie watched the two Arabs until they disappeared around the corner. He stepped back into the room and found himself on the floor, gasping for air.

*

The blue BMW 740iL waited with its engine on. They jumped in. Bashir barked at the driver to go. They drove for five minutes, taking sharp turns, verifying that no one was following.

“ There!” Bashir pointed to a pay phone near a metro station.

The driver stopped at the curb and Bashir stepped out. Abu Yusef joined him. They put their heads together as the phone rang at the newsroom of Paris-1. Like all incoming calls, Abu Yusef knew it would be recorded, and he had instructed Bashir in advance what to say.

“ Paris-Une. Oui? ”

“This is the Abu Yusef group.” Bashir spoke English.

“Yes?”

“We attacked the synagogue on Rue Buffault. Our freedom fighters committed this brave attack under the command of our leader, Abu Yusef, the future president of Palestine.”

“Wait a minute! Who are you?”

“Our leader is Abu Yusef, the future president of Palestine. We will continue our struggle until Palestine is free again! Long live Palestine!”

Bashir hung up, they got back in the car, and the driver hit the gas, merging back into traffic.

*

The first wave of ambulances departed with the bloodied victims to several Paris hospitals. Under gathering clouds, uniformed gendarmes loaded black plastic bags into the hearses. The only sound was the crackling of glass fragments under their boots.

Gideon and Bathsheba returned from Ermenonville after hearing the news on the radio. They found Elie in the crowd, a small man in a gray coat and a wool cap pulled down over his ears. He looked the same as the other Parisian spectators, ogling the scene of disaster, memorizing the ghastly details to be shared with friends in the local cafe. But at a closer look, Elie’s gray face showed no curiosity. The black eyes narrowed to hateful slits, the lips pressed together tightly.

When the last body bag was gone, a fireman rolled a hose off a fire engine and began washing the pavement.

“Seventeen dead,” Elie said. “Let’s go.”

As soon as they entered the apartment, Bathsheba exploded. “I told you we should shoot Abu Yusef in Senlis! It’s your fault!”

“Your assumption is wrong.” Elie looked at her coldly. “This bombing wasn’t done by Abu Yusuf. And if you disapprove of my command, you may leave. Reapply to Mossad, see if they take you now.”

“She has a point,” Gideon said. “We should have-”

“Abu Yusef didn’t have time to plan something like this,” Elie said. “This was done by someone else, maybe even the PLO itself, trying to jack up the price for the next phase of the Oslo negotiations.”

“Didn’t you hear the news?” Bathsheba followed him into the room. “Abu Yusef took credit!”

“You believe the news?”

Gideon watched Elie’s face. Was he lying?

“Taking credit means nothing,” Elie continued. “Abu Yusef was first to call a TV station. An Algerian group also took credit, claiming they targeted the minister of art and culture. Others will follow. You’ll see.”

Bathsheba seemed unconvinced.

“We’re leaving,” Elie said. “This apartment is no longer safe for us.” He gathered his papers into a small pile, topped by his heavy copy of the Bible, a decorated edition that was bound between two plates of carved wood.

They packed their clothes, equipment, and weapons-two mini-Uzis and three handguns with silencers.

Gideon drove. On Rue de Rivoli, across from the public gardens, Elie told him to park at the curb.

No. 4 Palace de La Concorde had once been a hotel, but in the sixties an American law firm had turned it into its Parisian branch office. Now it had a wood-paneled lobby, which was bustling with men in business suits and strained faces. Elie led the way to a bank of pay phones in the back and ran a phone card through the slot. Gideon noticed the first numbers he was punching. Forty-one for Switzerland. One for Zurich. Then Elie moved and blocked the view.

*

Paula started working on a beef stew for dinner. The pot was hissing on the stove while she sliced a large sweet onion. The telephone rang. “Can one of you gentlemen get it?”